Achilles
by LegalBlonde
Summary: CHAPTER 11. Jack and Irina forge a tenuous truce that will test both their loyalties. AU, Post-ADT.
1. Amber

Title: "Achilles"

Author: LegalBlonde

Email: legalblonde2005@yahoo.com

Rating: PG

Pairing: J/I

Spoilers: AU, post "A Dark Turn"

Summary:  J/I, angst, romance.  Jack and Irina forge a tenuous truce that tests both their loyalties.  

Disclaimer:  Alias and its wonderful characters belong to JJ Abrams, Bad Robot, and lots of other people with more money than me.  They make all the money off this, and I make none. The song quotes are from the Indigo Girls' "Ghost".

Author's Note: This series is built around my standalone, "Infallible".  It doesn't follow that storyline exactly; that story will eventually be incorporated as a chapter in this, with minor changes.  The fic picks up shortly after "A Dark Turn".  

_And dance the edge of sanity,_

_I've never been this close._

Amber lights, amber-finished wood, amber liquid.  The life he chooses here is simple, comprehensible, monochromatic.  

Everything she will never be.  

He doesn't bother swirling the scotch in his glass or staring moodily, he simply throws it back, one burning sip after another, until the amber is emptied from the glass and he sets it down on the bar; it connects solidly and he can feel the vibrations run through the heavy wood.  

Harder than he intended, but no matter.  The bartender looks up, putting down the hose he had been cleaning.  The fifth hose he's cleaned since Jack has been here.  

The younger man does not ask the older one, does not even make eye contact.  He slaps another amber glass down, more gently.  Minutes later, it too is gone.  

He signals the bartender; he waves two fingers.  Two more.  Perhaps, then, his guilt, his idiocy, will fade away into the amber light.  But she -- she will never fade.  He learned this long ago.  

He remembers passing a stack of bills to the bartender.  They stuck as they slid across the bar.  Someone must have spilled.  

He remembers the backseat of a taxi, thick with dust and smelling of urine.  A rough stop, another handful of bills.  He can, he thinks, make it to the house. One step, another, he does not need the keys.  The door swings open, and he takes two more steps in.  

He wakes the next morning (afternoon?) and he feels the rough upholstery of the couch against his cheek.  His head pounds, his eyes burn, and he remembers.  He remembers even in his dreams.  Always the same dream: smooth skin, his hand running across her shoulder, tracing down her bare back.  Her breath warm on the skin of his neck, his chest, her hair falling across his lips.  And then she looks up at him, her eyes bright, and she smiles.  He sees the blade flash for only a moment before she draws it across his throat.  And he jerks awake, blinking in the amber light.  

The phone rings, and he gropes for it, gripping it too tightly with his sweaty hand.  The voice coming through is his daughter.   She sounds concerned, and loud.  He holds the phone four inches from his ear.  

"Fine," he says, "I'm fine."

"Yes, yes.  No.  I'll be in later. No.  I'll be in."  He gropes again for the receiver, clicking it down unevenly before her voice stops talking.  He pushes himself partway up and rubs his forearm across his eyes.  It is rough with starched cotton; the same buttondown he put on yesterday, contrasting with the same dark pants.  He sees the matching jacket slung over the chair across from him.  He wonders if he can wear the same thing again today.  Probably not.  

His head still pounds when he arrives at the office, oblivious to the handful of aspirin he downed before leaving home.  He sees Kendall, all too soon, seated at his desk and thumping a pencil against a file.  He can only guess as to the contents of that file.  Sighing, he trudges to the desk and drops unceremoniously into the chair on the other side.  He stares at Kendall, who stares  back.  The men mirror each other, lips set, eyes dark.  

"I have some questions about your last op with your ex-wife."  

"I'd appreciate it if you would refer to her as Derevko."

"The two of you shared a hotel room in Panama?"

"You made the arrangements."

"I'm wondering how seriously you took your cover."

"If this is your way of asking me whether I slept with the prisoner, I suggest you follow another line of questioning."

"Fine.  Did you sleep with the prisoner?"

"No.  And we have nothing more to discuss."  He straightens up and leaves.  Not to his desk, but back out the front door, across the street, down a back road to a square brick building with a blinking neon sign.  He runs his fingers across the smooth, amber-finished wood, tracing the dark grain.  The bartender looks up at him, and does not meet his eyes.  He plunks the first glass down, sliding it across the polished wood.  The amber light filters through the dimmed windows, falling on the amber liquid in the glass.  It is simple, comprehensible, monochromatic.  He takes the first sip.  


	2. Innocence

_You come regular like seasons_

_Shadowing my dreams_

*************

He takes one drink for every dream, one more for every night since he remembered smooth skin, soft lips, whispering voice.  He takes twenty-eight sips today, twenty-eight days since he remembered touch, taste, smell.  He is done drinking for the days.  He begins drinking for the dreams.  

The dream is different this time; he sees her in an oak-paneled room, sitting high behind the bench, her form hidden in dark robes.  Her glittering eyes look through him, the way they always have.  He steps toward her, and steps again.

"Innocent or guilty?"  she asks, a teasing lilt in her voice, one eyebrow pulling up.  She loves this game, like she loves all the others.  

"Innocent."  He says, jaw set, eyes fixed.  On her.  

She tilts her head, but does not voice the question in her eyes.  

"Innocent," she says.  She bangs the gavel.  She bangs it again.  And again.

Again.  He blinks in the morning sun.  Again.  The banging does not stop.  Again -- someone is at his door.  He pushes himself up on one arm -- his cheek again scraping across the rough material of the couch. His head spins, he pauses a moment to still it.  The banging does not stop.

He crosses to the door, forcing his cramped legs to walk straight.  He jerks it open without looking through the peephole.  He sees her eyes, her hands, her hair.  He has never been completely able to see one without the other.  He grips the doorknob harder.  

"Sydney, what is it?"

"Do you even know what today is?"

He closes his eyes, the days running through his mind.  He can never forget them.  He can stop caring.

"Do you think I would forget?"

"Dad, you have to stop doing this.  Whatever it is, whatever she did to you, you can't ruin your life like this."

His jaw clenches and his dark eyes glow like fire.  They mirror hers.

"This has nothing to do with your mother, and you will do well to forget such insinuations.  As for my court-martial, I will handle that as I see fit.  When I'm looking for someone to run my life, I'll let you know."  He slams the heavy door, the sound throbbing through his head.  He closes his eyes and leans against it, knowing she is still on the other side.  He will not open it.  His words burn his heart, just as they burned hers.  

*************

"I believed we were innocent until proven guilty."

"You are. Answer the question."

"No."

"So it is your testimony that you did not remove Derevko's tracking device?"

"I believe I just answered that."

"In that case, how do you explain the absence of the device?"

"Absence is your conjecture.  The device malfunctioned."

"Malfunctioned.  How?"

"When I attempted to access it, I received no signal."  

"And have you any idea what would cause this malfunction?"

"Derevko is resourceful.  It's not beyond the realm of possibility she found a way to deactivate the device."

"Or to remove it?"

"It's possible."

"And how is it that you, as her handler, were unaware of this?"

"She was not in my presence at every moment."

"So it is your testimony that she disabled or removed the device while in your custody?"

"The device may have malfunctioned.  Someone may have been able to disrupt the signal from the outside."  

"Then you are unwilling to accept any fault in this matter?"

"I'm perfectly willing to accept fault if it's proven."

"Yet you're unwilling to aid the agency in investigating the incident?"

"I've told them what I know.  I can't help what they choose to do with that knowledge."

"So your testimony is that your ward removed or disabled the device in your custody, or colluded with others to do so, and you knew nothing about it?"

"I've told you what I know."

"Answer the question -- yes or no."

"Yes."

"No further questions." 

***************

"Jack Bristow.  At the conclusion of these proceedings, this body finds the prosecution has not met the standard of proof required.  Absent affirmative findings of guilt, we have no choice but to render a ruling of not guilty.  Agent Bristow, you are free to go.  

"But if I may indulge the court a minute, I have another word.  Agent Bristow, your behavior here has been questionable at best.  You have been combative, uncooperative, and unforthcoming.  Additional information about your work performance since the Derevko incident is even more disturbing.  While we are allowing you to go free, I suspect your tenure with the CIA will not be long if this pattern continues.  Hearing adjourned."

The gavel bangs down; the sound is brief, sharp, like the crack of a baseball bat.  With that, he is free.  Proclaimed innocent for all to hear.  

Innocence.  Redemption.  Expiation.  Absolution.  The words echo through his throbbing skull, the way they did as a child.  He remembers bright Sunday mornings, with pancakes and starched shirts and a red and blue-striped clip-on tie.  His mother, pulling back the fuzzy warm comforter while his father sat at the table in his undershirt and said he should listen to his mother, and go every Sunday, and when he was a man he could make his own choices, and perhaps make better ones.  

He remembers the words, booming from a pulpit so much more loudly than the boom of a puny gavel.  Forgiven.  Blameless.  Innocent.  Free.

He even knew the hard words, grasped them early, words like expiation and exoneration.  His mother beamed at the other mothers, with their rustling pastel dresses, said wasn't Jackie smart and wasn't Jackie good.  

He didn't smile at the pastel women, he didn't tell his mother what he really thought.  That big words were empty, meaningless, that he couldn't feel the grand, free feeling he should have when he said them.  That he couldn't boom like the preacher or grin like the Sunday-school teacher.  That he could not accept something he could not fathom, or measure, or simply see.  

He remembers now.  If he had understood then, would a burden lift from his shoulders, shattered by the crack of the gavel?  

Exonerated, vindicated, justified.  He steps through the heavy glass door, out past the metal detectors.  A loose wind whips him in the face, smelling of fresh asphalt.  This is freedom.  He rounds the corner; gravel skitters from his feet as he crosses the unfinished sidewalk.  He can watch them finish it now, watch them work every day with the bright triangles and the flashing safety vests.  The thrilling life of a free man.  

His feet know where he is going, his body does not resist.  The inside of the building is smokier than he remembered, the jukebox more grating, the barstool less clean.  That will all fade away soon.  He sits heavily down, taking his time, with the measured slowness of a man with a whole life to spare.  He signals the bartender, meeting his eyes.  

Just one drink, that's all he wants.  He'll just have one tonight.  

That must be the truth.  Surely, an innocent man would never tell himself lies.  


	3. Timing

_Can you hear it,_

_A cry to be free?_

**********

Tick, tick, tick.

His head rests on his arm, his watch just behind his ear.  So close, he can hear the tiny second hand jerking by.  Tick, tick, tick.  He blinks in the amber light, drawing the offending watch away from his ear and the rough material of his starched cotton shirt across his face.  He twists his head up, toward the amber light, and his face again scratches against the rough material of his sofa.  He sighs heavily, and can still hear the watch.  

It's joined by a rhythmic tapping at his door.  He heaves himself up, off the sofa, and crosses unsteadily to the door.  He looks through the peephole this time, and sees a brown eye blazing on the other side.  Again.

With another sigh, he opens the door, still blinking in the light.

"Yes?"

"May I come in?"  Her voice is soft, her smile ingratiating.  She switched tactics; this does not bode well.  He opens the door further and steps aside, but does not speak.  She steps through, her eyes sweeping the place, taking in the slept-on sofa, the piled-up junk mail, the left-out grocery bags and the half-empty scotch glass.  She does not speak, but her jaw tightens as she steps over a pile of junk mail and sits on the sofa.  

Her movements are measured, with studied ease.  She sits in the center of the sofa, lounging back, arms placed wide to either side and legs stretched out in front of her.  She's taking up space, appearing at ease while she forces him to sit uncomfortably close to her or pull up a different seat.  Her father's daughter.  

He does not sit, but stands, towering over her.  

"Yes?"

"I was wondering if we could talk."  Her eyes, round and brown, glint up at him.  

"Sydney, I realize what you're doing here, but it's unnecessary."  His voice is quiet; it does not carry the same sting it did last week.

"Dad, I'm worried about you."  

"You shouldn't be."

"I was there at the hearing. I heard the judge, and I've listened to Kendall's rant every day for the last five weeks.  You've got to take this seriously."

"Sydney, I assure you that I have never taken my work for the CIA anything _but_ seriously.  Your concern is appreciated, but misplaced."

She drops her eyes, studying the dusty carpet.  Her voice is whispery, serious.

"Dad,"

His tone is even.  "Sydney, as I said, there's no cause for concern.  Perhaps it's best we end this conversation before it becomes anything else."  He crosses to the door, hand on the handle, but does not pull it open.  She draws a breath, eyes still on the floor, then jerks her head up resolutely.  

"Okay."  She is off the couch and to the door in one motion, head high, shoulders squared, eyes glistening.  He opens the door and she strides out without another word.

He closes the door with a soft click.  He leans against it, closing his eyes.  He does not need a lecture from a twenty-six-year-old.  He does need some aspirin.  His head throbs with last night, the scotch, the strain, the dreams.  And the ticking.  He reaches down to remove his watch, dropping it on the couch as he passes, heading for the bathroom with its economy-sized aspirin bottle. 

****************

He is on time today, waiting in the conference room before even Kendall arrives.  Kendall almost jumps with the shock of seeing him in his normal seat, suit pressed and file folders arranged neatly before him.  He glances up, as if it's the most normal thing in the world.

"You had questions on the latest Echelon data?"  He uses his most businesslike tone, flipping open the top file.

"Ye -- um, yes.  But let's wait until we have everyone here."

Jack nods and flips the folder shut, templed fingers resting on top of it.  Kendall glances back toward the door and uses the arrival of the others to mask his shaking head. 

…

"So we're sending a team in.  Agent Bristow, Agent Vaughn, you'll go in as a team of researchers and make copies of the schematics.  Agent Weiss, you'll be in the van providing backup.  Marshall will explain the tech."

…

Jack rises with the rest of them, arranging and shuffling papers and meticulously placing every file in order, until only he and Kendall remain.  Kendall steps toward the door, his hand on the knob.

"I believe I should enter the facility with the team."  Kendall freezes.  He turns slowly back to Jack, as if uncertain about what he just heard.

"What?"

"You heard me.  I believe I should go in with the team."

"Jack, there are plenty of reasons why--"

"I debriefed Derevko on the operations of that facility.  I'm in a better position to know its operations and layout than anyone here."

Kendall crosses back to the table, leaning toward Jack as his hands grip the back of a chair. 

"Jack, I could go into all the reasons why that is a bad idea, but I don't think either one of us wants to hear that. You will be at ops center aiding the operation.  Why don't we drop this conversation before leads to anything embarrassing."

Jack's jaw tightens, but his gaze and tone remain even.  

"Very well."

He picks up the folders and crosses to the door, Kendall's eyes following him.  He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, his back to the other man.  

"You know, one thing about my court martial still puzzles me."  He pauses, looking back at Kendall.  "So much time was spent investigating the malfunction of the tracking device, which happened while she was in my care, but almost no time was devoted to the disappearance of the manuscript, which happened while she was in your care.  Well, I suppose it's water under the bridge.  See you this afternoon."

****************

"Dad, you're going on the mission?"  Sydney dropped her blonde wig onto the table.

"Yes.  Since I gathered the intel on this facility from Derevko, Kendall felt it would be best if I accompanied the team."

She lowers her voice, glancing to ensure no one else is in earshot.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?"

"Sydney, do you think I would ever endanger our team?"  His eyes flash, but his tone is not as harsh as she expected.  

She purses her lips, and gives him a slight nod.  "See you on the plane."

**************

When he leaves the office, it's after seven.  His body and mind head toward home, but his feet pull him in another direction.  Sighing, he follows, counting the number of hours remaining before they depart on the mission tomorrow.  

The familiar sound accost his ears, the familiar smells assault his nose.  He takes a seat at a different stool tonight, closer to the door.  He stays, but only for an hour.  He thinks about the day when he will not come at all.  


	4. Reversal

_Can you hear it,_

_A cry to be free?_

_But I'm forever under lock and key._

************__

He can hear Sydney and Vaughn above him, treading quietly through the dark facility.  He's on the lab floor, gun drawn, threading his way instinctively through the complex machinery and endless counters.  The catwalk above stops creaking, and he knows they have reached the servers on the far side.  All he needs now are two minutes.  Two minutes of cover, and they can escape safely, the mission successful.  Two minutes until he can get what he came for.  

Too late.  He hears a shuffling sound on the other side of the lab and whips around to face it, willing his arms to hold his weapon steady.  A shot makes all three of them jump; it ricochets off the catwalk railing in a shower of sparks.  

Jack fires once, twice, peering into the green-tinted darkness and knowing their attacker has already taken cover.  He dives behind the nearest counter almost before the second shot is off.  The catwalk above is silent.  The return shot misses him wildly; their attacker clearly has no idea where he's stationed.   He crawls slowly to the opposite end of the counter, peering around the corner.  The night-vision goggles reveal objects, but not depth.  He wishes he could take them off, searching the shadows, instinctively finding the one spot that's darker than dark.  But his eyes would never adjust quickly enough.  Instead, he relies on his ears, listening for a shuffle, a step, a breath.  He hears nothing.  

Thirty seconds go by.  Forty-five.  And he hears it.  A sound, a mere shadow of a footstep, the kind you hear alone at night without knowing whether it was your imagination.  It's directly behind him.

His body tenses; he dares not move.  Surprise is his only option.  He lifts the gun again, pretending to aim it at a target across the room.  His left hand slips stealthily down, reaching inside his vest.  His fingers close around a long, slender device, disguised as a pen.  It contained three darts; he used two to take out the guard at the gate.  He slides it out of his pocket and slowly down, until his left hand rests against his leg.  He presses the button and it fires, past his leg and directly behind him.  The aim was nonexistent, but it's enough.  He hears the _thunk_ of a person diving for cover and darts toward the closest machinery, taking cover amongst the multiple mechanical arms.  The first attacker fires another shot in his direction; it's closer this time.  He takes one shot in front of him and whirls quickly to place two behind him, darting behind the computer bank to his left.  In front of him, another shot glances off the catwalk, followed by one that goes high and shatters a light fixture above the server.  No sounds come from behind.  

Another pause.  Fifteen seconds, thirty.  The download should almost be complete.  He takes another shot in the dark, hoping to flush the attacker out.  He sees only a green landscape of lab equipment.  Above, he hears the sudden rush of footsteps along the side balcony.  Shots fire down to the lab floor, close to the area where he was originally aiming.  A return shot comes simultaneously with the crash of one of the eastern windows, and Jack fires four rounds to the far side of the lab, close enough this time that the firing pauses as two black-clad figures disappear through the shattered glass.  There's a clatter and more shuffling on the lab floor, and he sees a moving form for just a moment as it dives through the east lab doors.  Its heavy footsteps break into a run on the other side.  

Jack waits, counting the seconds in his mind.  Forty-five, sixty.  One hundred and twenty-seven seconds later, he hears it again.  The stealthy shadow of a footstep, close to the north lab door.  He waits, his muscles beginning to ache, and lets one hundred and twenty more seconds pass before he follows.  

He rips off the goggles as he creeps down the hall, his eyes slowly adjusting to the blackness.  He strains his ears with every step, so focused now he has forgotten the pounding in his head and the dryness in his throat.  He feels, rather than sees, the sharp turn of the corridor and then the small passage branching off to the side.  He follows it, his hand trailing along the wall.  He counts three, four, and five gaps, and on the sixth comes to a stop.  More slowly than possible, with every nerve screaming, he steps into the open doorway.  He sees it, a spot blacker than black, a shapeless silhouette he recognizes even in his dreams.  Raising his weapon, he announces himself with the click of a semiautomatic slide.  

"Raise your arms and don't move."  He steps cautiously inside, running one hand along the wall.  He feels the gap of the first window and pulls the shade.  It snaps up, sending a pale shaft of moonlight across the room.  He sees her now, just as he sees her in his dreams, standing half in shadow and half in light.  Her arms are stretched out before her, her gun aimed at his head.  

"Drop it."

"You first."

Neither moves.  

"Your agents have what they came for.  Drop the gun, and I'll let you leave."

"Forgive me if I have a hard time believing that."

"Believe what you want.  That's my offer."

"I have a better idea."

She does not answer.

"We'll find the schematics in the files we downloaded, one way or another.  Give me the names of the specific dummy files we need, and I'll let you leave."

"I'm not going to play games with you, Jack."

"I'm having a difficult time accepting that."

The corner of her mouth twitches. "You know, I enjoyed Panama."

His grip on the gun tightens, but does not waver.  

"If you're trying to make me nostalgic, you've miscalculated."

"Too bad, I was hoping for angry."

"If you're wondering whether I'm angry enough to pull the trigger, I suggest you drop your weapon."

"Where's the fun in that?"

"Your associate was trying to kill Sydney tonight.  We both question your idea of 'fun'."

Her lips press together, thin and tight.

"I would never attempt to harm Sydney."

"Certainly not by shooting her."

"If I go through that door, without dropping my weapon, you can keep yours trained on me until I reach the end of the hall."  

"No."

"You have a better idea?"

"Yes.  Take off your earring."

"What?"

"Take off your earring.  Toss it over to me."

"Why?"

"Insurance."

"That you won't shoot me?"

"That you'll follow my instructions."

"Which are?"

"Meet me Tuesday at 3:15 by the Emerald Bay Marina.  I'm sure you'll remember the spot."

"I am not walking into a CIA ambush."

"You'll give me the names of the dummy files, and I'll return your property."

"Why would I agree?"

"Because neither of us is dropping our gun, and I'm your only link to Sydney."

Her eyes flash, but one hand reaches up for her ear.  The tiny object slides across the floor, glinting in the moonlight.

"Now the other one."

"One is enough."

"Probably.  But I want both."

"I'm leaving now."   She walks to the door, slowly, one arm pivoting as she moves, the gun remaining fixed on his head.  He allows her out the door, listening as her footsteps fade down the hall.  Only then does he bend down, picking up a tiny, glinting object from the floor.

…..

"Dad!"

"Jack!"

"Where have you been?"

"I followed one of Sloane's men out of the lab.  I tried to follow him to his rendezvous point, but I lost him in one of the corridors."

Sydney's eyebrows arch, but she doesn't press further.

Vaughn glances back to his computer screen.  "Were you able to find anything else?"

"Nothing."


	5. Nonsense

_Signals crossed, _

_Love gets lost, _

_And time passed makes it plain._

Yellow blades of sunlight fall across the shallow water.  A couple boats drift slowly back toward the docks, fishermen bringing in their lines.  Jack passes the once-familiar forms of the marina: the shabby, still-functioning office, the neat row of new docks with their shining speedboats.  The surroundings gradually grow dingier as he walks toward the old end of the marina, rotting planks of the old docks sagging toward the dank water as the green algae creeps higher and higher up the pilings.  The few boats tied there are small, weathered, perhaps abandoned.  He passes the old office and original bait shop, half of its cracked windows boarded, the roof sagging down, a rusting padlock securing its only door.  He walks down to the very end of the row, where a tiny pier juts out, its soggy, half-rotten wood stretching out a few meager feet over the water.  He takes in his surroundings, eyes sweeping from side to side.  He is early, quite early.  He will not be surprised.  

-----

Stars glint on the surface of the lake, black and smooth.  It laps almost imperceptibly around the pilings of the dock, a sound as soft as falling snow.  It smells slightly of fish and greasy black mud.  The last fishermen have left for the evening, no one dangles fruitless filament lines off the mud-caked dock.  Jack sits, alone, his feet dangling off the aging pier.  

A weathered cleaning-board stands nearby, littered with dry fish-scales and sticky entrails, and his eyes rarely leave its surface.  He can see the ridge of the hill over its top, the most direct approach to the shore.  He watches for any sign of movement.  

He fights to keep his eyes from sliding closed, to keep his body rigid with awareness.  He remembers the last time he saw her, disappearing into deepening darkness; the last time he dreamt of her, drawing the cool knife across his throat.  

His head throbs, his eyes burn, he wishes he had not skipped his evening routine.  

Countless minutes crawl by, and he sees her.  A shadow slinks over the edge of the small hill, holding its body close to the horizon.  His back stiffens, his eyes snap wide.  His hand reaches involuntarily to the small box in his pocket.  He can feel the worn edges of the little jewelry box, cheap cardboard filled with cotton wadding.  The sensation is familiar; he tries not to remember why.

_"I know you didn't forget my birthday, Jack.  Even _you _aren't that absent-minded."_

_"We've only been dating three weeks.  I didn't know a gift was required."_

_"You're telling me you forgot regs and protocol?"_

_"I didn't know protocol included a gift."_

_"Are you going to give it to me, or do I have to come after it?"_

_"That's up to you."_

He jerks to attention at the slight snap.  A twig cracks, just twenty yards from where he stands.  She's moving faster than he expected.  He reaches for his belt, hand brushing a flat metal plate on its side.  

The form creeps closer, moving swiftly.  It takes shape and size.  She's no more than thirty feet from him when the warning bells go off.  He jumps to his feet, spinning around.  He takes two steps toward the shore, instinctively moving away from the black water.  

"Stop right there."  His voice is a loud hiss.

A pair of shadowy hands lift in the air.  "All I have is a paper, I promise."  

Jack nearly jumps at the unfamiliar voice.  

"Who are you?"  He whips a penlight from his pocket, its narrow beam revealing the face if a frightened teenage boy, squinting in the sudden light.  

"Who are you?"

"I'm – I – nobody.  The lady told me to give this to Jack.  Are you Jack?"

He stalks to the end of the pier, stepping off on the soft ground.  He rips the envelope from the teenager's hand.  

"Who gave this to you?  Where is she?"

"Look, I don't know anything.  She handed this to me yesterday, at – at this place I go downtown.  Said she'd pay me to come here and give it to Jack.  I didn't open it, I promise.  I don't know anything."  

"Do you have any idea how much danger you've put yourself into?  That the woman you met with yesterday is a wanted assassin?"  

The kid shrinks back, stepping cautiously away from the light.

"Look, I don't know what this is, I'm just gonna go, okay?  Okay?"  He stares at Jack, green eyes going wide.  Hearing no answer, he spins on one heel and runs, not stopping until long after he disappears from site, over the hill where he came. 

The trees come alive with rustling and movement, seven agents stepping into the clearing.  Jack does not wait for them to approach before he rips open the envelope.  

"Empty."  He spits the word.  

The agents exchange various forms of irritated sighs and muttered profanities.  Jack crumples the envelope in his hand, eyes snapping shut in frustration.  He tries to remember how many hours it has been since his last drink.  Too many.  

The sound of retreating footsteps squelch through the soft mud.  He turns to follow them back to the van, back to a dingy bar and an empty home.  He steps forward slowly, feeling every year hanging on his heavy limbs.  

He walks thirty yards before he sees it.  Against the backdrop of shadows, something white flutters in the light breeze.  He steps closer; a small piece of paper has been folded and stuck through a broken pane in the window of the old bait shop.  He walks to the rickety structure, every nerve on edge, every sense alert.  He scans the blackness, but sees only dark water reflecting the pale stars.  He cannot see inside the structure; the dirt-smeared panes hide the shadows behind.  He grasps the paper slowly, as if it were a blade.  It slides easily out of the pane; he flattens out its three folds.  Even in the near-black, he recognizes the small, precise letters.  Pulling out the penlight, he reads the single line.

_Backup?  I'm  disappointed in you, Jack._

*********

Jack looks away from the computer, rubbing his forehead.  The familiar throb that began behind his eyes has spread through his entire skull.  He counts the hours until he can walk out the glass doors and down the gravel-covered sidewalk to his nightly haunt.  He lets his hand fall to the desk, and his eyes flick across it, coming to rest on a white cardboard box lying to one side.  He picks it up, removing the lid, lifting the tiny earring from inside.  He remembers her look of disgust when she took it off, the way her eyes narrowed in the half-light.  It was the perfect insurance, and she knew it; she knew he had found a way to make her comply.  And she will comply; he is certain of it.  

He holds the tiny earring too tightly; the angular edges prick his fingers.  A half-remembered couplet floats across his consciousness.  [i]_By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes._[/i]  He tosses the earring back into the box, disgusted with it, disgusted with this menial job, disgusted with the fact he hasn't had a drink all day and has forgotten every reason why.  He shoves his chair away from the desk and grabs his jacket from the back, checking to make sure he has his wallet.  

The sound stops him.  An odd scratching, a pulse, like the sound of one piece of paper being drawn across another.  He freezes, standing there, uncertain what he's just heard.  Just as he is about to walk away, it comes again.  The same noise, longer this time, like the vibration of a cell phone but far too quiet.  He sits back down, hands running across the desk, looking for any bug, any anomaly, anything out of place.  His eyes narrow as he grabs the cheap white box, pulling the earring from inside.  He holds it for a moment, the sharp edges digging into his fingers.  The sound comes again, louder, the vibrations coursing through his hand.  He wraps the tiny earring in his fist, feeling rather than hearing the transmission.  It comes again, two short pulses followed by two long ones, and two short pulses again.  A question mark.  How appropriate.  

Three question marks later, she apparently decides she has his attention.  The numbers start -- 2015.  Then the words: tomorrow.  marina.  no friends.  The earrings go silent.  

Jack leans back in his chair, palm open, studying the tiny device.  He shakes his head slowly.  

_"Oh, they're -- earrings.  Thank you, Jack."_

_"Laura?"_

_"They're lovely.  Thank you."_

_"Laura?  Were you wanting something else?"_

_"No, these -- these are perfect.  You shouldn't have done so much. "_

_"I can see something is bothering you.  What is it?"_

_"Nothing.  It's nothing."_

_"Am I going to have to drag it out of you?"_

_"No, no.  It's just, you've seen these?"_

_"Yes, you always wear them.  That's why I thought -- I thought you liked earrings."_

_"My mother left them to me -- it was what I had, after she was killed by the KGB.  It's why I  always wear them; I never take them off."_

_"Laura, I'm so sorry."_

_"No, no, it's alright.  You never would have known.  Like I said, it's only been three weeks."_

_"Laura, I'm sorry.  I'll make it up to you.  Here, I'll take these back, we can go tomorrow and pick out something you'll like."_

_"Jack...thank you.  Thank you.  I don't deserve you."_

_"Nonsense."_

Nonsense.  He clenches his fist and tightens his jaw.  Nonsense.  He drops the earring back into its cheap box, shoving it across his desk.  

She's summoning, and he knows he will go.  Nonsense.

********

He passes the again-familiar structures of the marina, long after twilight has deepened into blackness.  The breeze is stronger tonight, whipping the black water against the pilings, the small boats bumping their docks with a rhythmic sound.  

He follows the long pier down, past the shining new boats, past the half-rotted, near-empty spots, down to the old bait shop.  He stops there; it's as good a place as any.  He has an hour to spare, no point in sitting on an empty dock.  He peers in one of the cracked windows, but its blackness  reveals nothing.  His ears strain for any sound as he nears the flimsy wooden door.  He reaches for the rusted padlock; it swings open at the touch of his hand.  He pushes on the door to no avail.  The bloated wood sticks in the doorposts.  He puts his weight against it, pushing, and stumbles forward a step when it gives.  The room beyond is pure black, with a few moonlit rectangles beneath the eastern windows.  He pulls the penlight from his pocket, sweeping the beam slowly across the room.  It freezes on the barrel of a gun.  

"You're early."

He sweeps the light up her arms and onto her face.  "Drop it."

She lowers the gun slowly to her side, but does not set it down.    

"Bring any friends today?"

He snorts.  "Do you think I would inform you if I did?"

"Of course not.  Are you armed?"

"Of course."

"Fine. You can keep that flashlight on me while I walk to the corner.  There's a light there."  

The penlight follows her until she lights a small camping stove, illuminating the dark room with a soft orange glow.  Jack blinks in the sudden light.  

"What is it you want to know?"

"Taking the direct approach?"

"I'm not here to make small talk, Jack.  This is business."

"Which you always manage to keep separate from your personal life."

"As do you.  Have you told Sydney about our meeting?  Because I'm certain she would be happy to know you're using information about her to blackmail me."

"Somehow, I doubt you're in a position to discuss that with her."  

Irina glances to the side, away from the amber light, away from his glare.  "What is it you want to know?"

"What is Sloane looking for in the genetic database?"

"A specific DNA signature.  A man.  He's connected to Rambaldi, but I don't know exactly how.    A descendant, perhaps."

"And what does he hope to accomplish with that DNA?"

"If it's connected with Rambaldi, Sloane wants it."

"He's not the only one."  He continues to glare at her; he hasn't dropped his gaze since the amber light first illuminated her face.  She looks away again, just for a moment, then meets his eyes.  

"What I've given up, what I've taken -- I can offer Sydney something else.  A life, something she's never envisioned --"

[i]"You will not try to drag our daughter into this."[/i]  His voice is deadly, full of controlled fury.  "Justify it to yourself however you want, Irina, but [i]do not[/i] use Sydney as an excuse."

"She's not an excuse, Jack; she never has been.  I am just what I am.  You of all people know that."

Without a word, Jack turns to go.  

"You're forgetting something."  

He pulls a cheap box from his pocket, without bothering to turn around.  He tosses it behind him, letting it land on the rotting wood floor.

"I wasn't talking about that."

This time, he turns around.  

"You said you were my only link to Sydney.  It's true.  If I'm going to give you information, I want something in return.  I want to know about her life."

"Sydney is not a bargaining chip."

"Don't play the saint, Jack.  We both know better."  

"What is it that you want?"

"A deal.  We meet, like this.  I'll give you enough information to avert unnecessary casualties and keep Sydney out of danger.  In return, you'll keep me apprised of her life.  I want to know how she's doing, whether she's happy."

Jack's jaw clenches and unclenches twice, his face impassive.  The minutes draw out, long and silent.  

"The locations will be arranged in advance.  No deviations from protocol, no sudden changes in plan.  I will not bring the CIA and you will not bring your associates.  If you attempt to deviate from the plan, even once, I will see to it you are back in confinement by the end of the day."

A slow smile spreads across her face, her dark eyes glittering.  "Very well."

He gives her a short, curt nod and turns again to go.  

"Jack."

He sighs, resting one hand on the doorframe.  "What?"

"You've already forgotten our deal.  I have a question for you."

He turns around, waiting for her to continue.  

"When I -- left -- it seemed that perhaps Sydney -- she and Agent Vaughn..."  She trails off, but Jack offers no help.  He crosses his arms and continues to stare at her.  

"I just want to know, is she happy?"

He's the one to glance away this time, speaking without meeting her eyes.

"Yes.  She's happier than I've seen her."

Irina smiles, the warm, easy smile she'd given him on the plane, when everything was different.  

"Is that all?"  His voice is not as gruff as he intended.

"Yes.  Thank you."  He turns to go, and she follows, stopping to extinguish the small lamp.  Just as he steps out onto the pier, she passes him, her hand brushing his.  She presses something small into his palm.  He knows the cheap cardboard box by touch.  

"It looks familiar, doesn't it?"  she asks.

"No," he says.  "I don't know what you're talking about."  

He cannot read her face in the darkness, but his eyes follow her as she walks away from him, disappearing into the still night. 


	6. Memory

_It's dark and dangerous like a secret,_

_(Don't tell a soul.)_

Fourteen days.  Fifteen dreams.  Twenty-two drinks, nine briefings, twelve dead-drops and one earring.  One damn earring.  

It rests in the cheap box on his kitchen table, a strange mixture of insurance and extortion.  On the days he stops to look at it, it serves as the focus of more anger than he cares to admit he possesses.  So he places yesterday's newspaper on top of it, and he does not stop to look.    

He does not jump when the transmission starts, but crosses calmly to the table and picks up the pen and scratch pad he keeps nearby.  His hand moves in even strokes as he decodes the message: Tomorrow.  Waltham Park.  Swingset.  2115.  

He sets down the pen with a decisive click, jaw clenching, trying to recall the exact spot in his mind just as he tries to forget the memories associated with it.  He fails.

********

A light breeze cools his neck as the gravel crunches loudly beneath his feet.  The narrow trail winds and widens, opening on a large clearing centered around a small playground.  Wooden beams bound an octagonal play area filled with the same gravel, and the sound reminds him of a hundred afternoons with a hundred identical sounds; children yelling and swingsets creaking and gravel scattering beneath running feet.  He remembers skinned knees and blowing on cuts and cotton swabs dipped in hydrogen peroxide.  Somehow, he always had the job of prying the gravel pieces out of her tiny shoes, sitting on the balcony with a butter knife as he picked them out, one by one.  This place was their backyard, at least until they could afford to move out of the tiny apartment across the street.  

_"Daddy, Daddy!  Look, I found an Easter egg!"_

_"Let me see that -- well, you certainly did.  And a purple one.  It matches your dress."_

_"It does match my dress.  And my panties!  See?"_

_Running footsteps crunch through the gravel behind them.  _

_"Sydney!  Put down your dress!  Jack, stop laughing!  How am I supposed to teach her manners if you encourage this?"_

_"I was hoping you might learn from her."_

_"Jack!"_

His smile fades as he hears the sound of gravel crunching, far down the path.  He crosses to the other side of the play area and takes a seat on a bench, positioned so that he can see the spot where the gravel path emerges from the trees.  He sees her come in silhouette, the amber-toned lamps lighting the path behind her.  The playground is empty now, silent, the children gone with the sunlight.  It is not as safe here as it once was.  

She approaches him slowly, head still, eyes sweeping from side to side, taking in the area.  He performed the same action when he first reached the clearing.  She must see nothing to disturb her, because she walks to him and takes a seat at the far end of the same bench.  She sits straight, head high, eyes ostensibly studying the playground before them.  

"What does Sloane hope to accomplish with the DNA?"

"We've discussed this.  I don't know."

"I'm having difficulty believing that."

"Jack, I'm not here to argue with you."

"And I am not here to take your orders.  If you don't have any information to give, I have no reason to be here."  He rises from the bench, but makes it only two steps.  

"Why so bitter, Jack?"

"I am here on a business arrangement.  I see no reason to stay."

"I wasn't referring to our arrangement.  My sources tell me you've had some trouble at the CIA.  Some of it was related to your drinking...again."

His back stiffens, and he turns to face her.  "Even if that were true, with such well-placed sources, I'm surprised you would see any point in meeting with me at all."

"You're in a unique position to know about our daughter's life; you're certainly aware of that."

"Are you here to argue with me or to provide information?"

"What information do you want?"

"I've told you."

She sighs, closing her eyes as her head rocks back in frustration.  "Jack, there are some things I cannot discuss with you.  I'm willing to provide information; are you going to take advantage of that or snip at me for my career path?"

He snorts, but lets the 'career path' slide.  "Very well.  I would like to know who this well-placed source is."

"I can't reveal that."

"Irina, our arrangement is pointless if you refuse to disclose any worthwhile information."

"Sark will be returning to Germany next week.  They've traced the DNA there.  The vehicle he's driving will be equipped with a kill switch and a detonator.  If any agents attempt to investigate it after he leaves, it will explode.  Is that enough for you?"

"If this information proves to be false--"

"It won't.  Trust me, don't trust me, that's your choice.  It always has been."  She rises, prepared to go.

"Irina."

"Yes?"

"Your choice of meeting locations is rather questionable."

The corners of her mouth twitch.  "You always loved this park."

"Sydney always loved this park.  I was happier when she had an actual backyard.  But that wasn't what I was referring to."

"Then what?"

"This is indiscreet, to say the least.  And cheaply manipulative.  I would have expected more subtlety."

"Perhaps you give me too much credit."

He tilts his head to one side, meeting her gaze in the dim light.  It is his only response.  She shakes her head slowly after a moment, eyes darting off to the side.  One hand reaches up for her neck, absently rubbing a taut muscle.  She does not speak, but draws in a slow breath and turns to go.  

"Irina."  

She freezes, surprised, glancing back at him over her shoulder.    

He holds out the cheap cardboard box.  "Quid pro quo."

She arches an eyebrow, stepping forward to accept it.  Her hand brushes across his as she accepts the box, but he does not react.

"How will I contact you?"

"You won't."  For a moment, it looks as if he's about to say something else, he opens his mouth and immediately shuts it again.  He holds her gaze, face unflinching.  He turns abruptly and strides across the clearing, disappearing into the trees.  He doesn't say another word.  

She stands for a moment in the clearing, holding the cheap box.  

_"Mommy, you like my dress, too?"_

_"Of course I do, Sydney.  It's lovely."_

_"Daddy says I'm lovely."_

_"Daddy's right."_

_"Mommy, where did you go?"_

_"What do you mean, dear?"_

_"When I was swinging.  You went away in the trees.  Where did you go?"_

_"Nowhere, Sydney.  I've been right here."_

_"Were you talking to the bad man?"_

_"What bad man?"_

_"The mean one.  He came up to us on the swing.  He asked where my mommy was.  I didn't say anything.  You told me never to talk to strangers."_

_"Good girl, Sydney, good girl."_

*******

The van rounds the block slowly, pulling into position in a narrow Sttuttgart alleyway, prepared for a quick exit.  Jack maneuvers himself into the only corner of the van not jammed with surveillance equipment, crouching where he still has a view of the nearest satellite feed.  Agent Weiss has control of the communications, barking orders from his swivel chair set in the middle of all four consoles.  One of Kendall's less subtle reminders of who retains control.  

"Boyscout, any activity?"

"Negative."

"Do you have a visual on Mountaineer?"

"Nega -- wait.  I can see two people approaching -- it's Sark.  I'm following."  

Jack and Weiss strain to see the closest sat feed, monitoring the near-empty streets surrounding a small apartment building.  Nothing.  A steady thud-thud over the comm link reveals Vaughn's hurried footsteps, but little else.  Sydney has been radio silent for nearly three minutes.  

"Damn."

"Boyscout, is that you?"

"Yes -- I lost the visual; Sark entered a green Volkswagen bus, license LP2111, and pulled out of the parking lot."

"Got it."  Jack taps the nearest monitor with his pen, indicating a dark rectangle pulling onto the deserted street.  

"Boyscout, we have a visual on the car.  Do you have a visual on Mountaineer?"

"Negative."  

Weiss sighs.  "We're activating her tracker."  He flicks several switches, and Jack leans forward imperceptibly, straining to see the tiny green dot go active.  

"Oh, man," Weiss breathes.  Jack can feel every muscle go taut.  

"What, what is it?  Do you have contact?"  Vaughn's voice grows louder over the comm.  

Weiss shakes his head.  "Boyscout, return to rendezvous point.  I repeat, return to rendezvous point."

"Weiss, what is it?  Where's Sydney?"

"She's in Sark's car."   


	7. Combustion

_"Weiss, what is it?  Where's Sydney?"_

"She's in Sark's car."

*********

_"What?"_

"The vehicle you saw Sark enter -- the green Volkswagen bus -- we have it on the sat feed.  Sydney's tracker is transmitting from inside."  

Without a word, Jack grabs the headset from a stunned Weiss.

"Mountaineer, Mountaineer, do you copy?"

Silence.  

"Mountaineer, this is base.  Mountaineer."

Silence.  

Jack bangs his fist against the nearest console.  Weiss begins rummaging underneath the consoles, trying to locate a second headset while speaking in his best let's-all-be-calm voice.  "We don't know why she's with Sark.  She may have him in custody."

"The bus is rigged with explosives."

"What?  How do you--"

_"What?" _Vaughn's voice is dangerously loud through the headset.

"The bus will explode after Sark leaves if anyone tries to enter or exit."

_"Jack, you can't be serious.  How do you know this?"_

"Boy Scout, keep your voice down until you have returned to the rendezvous point.  We need to make certain you're not being followed."

Weiss stares at him, headset dangling from his hand.  "Jack, how do you know this?"

"This is Sark's modus operandi.  Whatever DNA evidence he's removing from the building, he's going to ensure we can't recover any traces of it.  One way or another, that van will be neutralized after he exits."

They both jump at a bang on the rear door.  Weiss presses a button and the door swings open, Vaughn jumping through and slamming it shut behind him.

"We need to pull out and follow _now,_" Vaughn yells to the driver.  

Jack glares at him.  "Agent Vaughn, you do not have operational control of this operation."  

"That's right, _I_ do."  Weiss turns to the console nearest Jack, adjusts some controls, and speaks to the driver.  "I've switched the feed on your screen.  Can you see the green vehicle I'm indicating?"

"Affirmative."

"Follow it, but stay out of sight."

The van pulls smoothly out of its spot Weiss connects his new headset and passes a second one to Vaughn, who removes the tiny comm link from his ear.  Jack continues speaking into his.

"Mountaineer, this is base.  It is imperative that you respond.  Mountaineer, do you copy?"

Five seconds tick by in agonizing silence.  Jack clenches his fist, knuckles white.  Vaughn bangs his against the van's rear door. Weiss shakes his head.  

"Mountaineer, this is base.  Mountaineer?"

A faint rustling sound comes over the line.  "Mountaineer, is that you?"

Another rustle.  No words.

"Mountaineer, if you can hear me, activate and deactivate your comm."

A rustle.  A crackle.  The fourth light on Jack's console goes dark, then blinks on again.  Weiss sighs in relief.  Vaughn's head rocks back against the van doors.  

"Mountaineer, it is imperative that you leave the vehicle with Sark.  There are explosives set to detonate if anyone tries to enter or exit after Sark leaves.  Do you copy?"  

Another crackle.  The light blinks off, then on again.

"Good.  We will have a team poised for extraction.  How many men are with you?"

The light flashes off, then on, remaining steady.

"It's just you and Sark?  Once for yes, twice for no."

One blink.

"Are you injured?"

One blink.  Then another.  Vaughn sighs audibly.  Jack's hand releases a bit, color returning to the knuckles.  

"Are you in restraints?"

Two blinks.

"Does Sark have a gun on you?"

Two blinks.  

Weiss and Vaughn exchange looks.  Jack shakes his head, the side of his mouth twitching into something that, on another person, might be mistaken for a smile.  He checks the location of the Volkswagen on the monitor, tapping the dark shape several blocks ahead.  

"Is Sark aware of your presence?"

Two blinks.

"Mountaineer, you have backup within ninety seconds.  Proceed as necessary."

Another rustle over the comm, and her voice comes through, the volume nearly causing all three men to jump.  

_"Pull into the next alley.  Don't speed up; don't swerve.  I will pull the trigger."_

Another voice comes through, more distant, with a familiar British accent. 

_"Miss Bristow.  I thought you might be in town."  _

_"Don't try anything, Sark.  Pull over."_

The CIA van jerks and swerves around a corner, accelerating quickly as it comes within sight of the green Volkswagen.  The Volkswagen jerks to one side, rear wheels skidding as it pulls into a narrow alley.  

_"Keep your hands on the steering wheel.  Don't attempt to get out."_

The CIA van swerves to one side, tires screeching as it pulls to a stop, blocking off one end of the alley.  Vaughn throws the door open and all three men jump out, guns drawn and trained on the green bus in front of them.  

The driver's door opens, slowly, Sark stepping out with his hands raised.  Just as his foot hits the ground, he pivots, trying to swing clear of the door as he slams his left arm against it.  The door collides with Sydney's arm, bouncing open as she jumps through.  She's over the front seat in one motion, grabbing Sark's wrist and twisting it behind him as they both fall forward onto the asphalt.  Sydney uses her free hand to slam the butt of her gun against the back of Sark's neck.  He grunts as his face hits the ground, Sydney pulling up and placing her weight on her left knee, now positioned in the center of Sark's back.  She keeps the barrel of the gun against his neck.  

"How do we deactivate the explosives?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Answer me, or you're coming back to Langley."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sark, we have possession of the bus and the equipment inside.  We will know everything you know, the only question is how easy this process is for you."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Fine."  She slams his head against the asphalt, and his body goes limp.  The three men lower their guns as Weiss climbs back into the van, emerging with a pair of handcuffs.  Sydney steps away from Sark, allowing Weiss to do the honors.  

Vaughn doesn't wait or even put his gun away before wrapping his arms around her, oblivious to the scene around them and to Jack, arms crossed, standing just behind them.  That odd twitch of his lips is back again.  


	8. Games

**********

Jack stands before the lone window, buttons his coat and crosses his arms, the motion drawing his jacket more closely around him.  The small storage facility is empty this time of the day, the bored attendant more than happy to take an hour off after generous compensation in American dollars.  The cool air of a German spring wafts through the flimsy building, carrying in the smells of the empty alley beyond.   The fluorescent lights blink and flicker overhead, filling the room with unnaturally bright light.  The only door swings open, hinges grating in a high-pitched squeal.  Footsteps enter behind him, soft, slithering across the floor.  He does not turn to look.

The footsteps stop just behind him.  A whoosh of breath.  A hand on his shoulder.  

He recoils, as if she'd slapped him.  He steps to the side, away from the offending hand, crossing his arms more tightly, the motion wrapping his jacket more securely. 

"I received your summons," she says, with a trace of irony.

"I was sure with Sark in town, you wouldn't be far behind."

"And where is my associate?"

"En route to the CIA.  I'm sure you're familiar with his accommodations."

"Sloane will be on the warpath when he learns what's happened."

Jack snorts.  "Sloane isn't in the habit of going out of his way for his employees."  He glances back at her for the first time.  "You don't seem concerned."

She cocks her head to one side, crossing her arms.  "As you said, I'm familiar with the accommodations."  She pauses, studying the back he keeps turned to her.  It's become a familiar sight.  "I tried to contact you through the transmitter you gave me."

"It only works one way."

"So I discovered.  But I'll admit to being surprised.  No tracker, at least not one that I could find."

"I knew you wouldn't believe I was returning the earring.  You would have discovered the tracker in five minutes."

"Three."  She pauses again, waiting.  He gives her no sign to continue.  "Why did you call me here?"

"You're aware what happened today."

"That's not an answer."

He jerks around to face her, shoulders rigid, eyes flashing.  "I hope you realize you are responsible for everything that happened today."

"For saving our daughter's life?"  

"For almost having her killed.  This isn't a _game_, Irina."

"You seem to be saying that a lot."  Her voice remains low, even.  His only grows louder.  

"You seem to have no compunction when it comes to our daughter's life."

"Like the compunction you had when you allowed her to be brought into SD-6?  To work for Arvin Sloane?"  Her voice grows lower, almost a hiss. 

"That was _not_ my decision.  Arvin recruited her behind my back.  I rejoined the CIA after I learned about it."

He stops, glaring at her, and draws back a step.  An intake of breath, a hand across the forehead, and in only a moment, he is the calm, composed Jack she sees so often.  "There's no reason to discuss this with you.  You have made both your affinity for Sloane and your disregard for Sydney perfectly clear."

"And my disregard for you?"  She tilts her head, studying his temple, the spot where it tenses every time he clinches his jaw.

  His tone is even, and venomous.  "I've never doubted that."

"You sell me short, Jack."

"Do I?"

"You've agreed to meet with me now -- lured me here."

"Based on my concern for Sydney."

"A concern I apparently don't share."

"You made the decision, Irina.  It was always yours to make."

"I made a decision twenty years ago -- nothing has changed in twenty years?"

"Why don't you ask William Vaughn about that?  I don't think things have changed much for him in the last twenty years."

"So that's what this is about?  You're here for payback?  For a man you didn't know?"

"Twelve men."

"That you didn't know.  You've never killed anyone, have you, Jack?  You've never lied, misled, used the ends to justify the means.  Tell me, how did you help start SD-6, again?"

"Irina, I am not here--"

"You knew what was happening in Panama.  You set yourself up as the martyr.  Poor, poor, Jack, betrayed by his wife again.  I don't see how anyone could find you culpable now.  Especially not our daughter."

"For someone who claims to have played into my hands, you certainly went along willingly."

"I got what I wanted."

"As did I.  Do you think Sydney will ever trust you again?  That she'll ever speak to you?"

"I'm sure she'd love to speak to you, once she knows your dealings with me."

"I'm sure she would."  He reaches into his pocket.  "Why don't you tell her?  Call her up; I'm sure she'll listen.  Do you want to use my phone?"__

She takes the phone, slowly, from his hand, holding it with two fingers like a dirty rag.  She lets it drop to the floor, clattering across the dusty concrete .   "Why are you here, Jack?  Certainly not for information?  You're not going to keep hiding behind that story."

"I'm here for the same reason you are."

"The sex?"

"If you're trying to make a joke, you're going to have to try harder."

"Too bad.  I thought it worked." 

She pauses, waiting for him to respond, but he only continues to glare.  She watches him, her eyes flicking up and down his frame, ending where they began -- his unmoving expression. 

"You know what I miss, Jack?  What I've never forgotten?  Your laugh.  I used to hear it, every day, even the days you weren't around, I could hear it in our house.  And I don't think I've heard it since I returned.  You're not enjoying this, Jack, are you?  How long has it been since you've been happy?"

"The -- problem -- is that you enjoy your work too much.  Murder, treachery, blackmail, turning your back on your family -- who wouldn't?"

"So that's it?  You've brought me here to pay for my crimes?"

"You've had your chance for to prove yourself."

"I've had many chances, Jack."

"Yet you chose to take none of them."

"Perhaps I'm waiting for the right one."

"Perhaps you're twenty years too late."

An expression he's unfamiliar with flickers across her face, darkening her eyes.  She does not meet his gaze.  

"Well, if that's it, then.  That's all I am.  Congratulations, you seem to have me figured out.  There's no more reason for me to stay.  If you want to meet, I'm sure you'll summon me."

She turns quickly and strides out, heels making a hollow sound as she crosses the dusty concrete.   He whirls back to the window, fists clenched.  The sound of her heels disappears, followed by the reverberating slam of the metal door.  Only then does he let his head fall forward, resting it against the cool glass.


	9. Arrogance

He spends his nights hovering over an ever-dwindling glass of scotch, his days over the black-and-white glow of a closed circuit television.  The prisoner, for his part, sits on the steel bench, legs dangling over the side, knees set wide, chin thrown back toward the ceiling.  He appears cool as the steel bed and more arrogant than the guards surrounding him.  He reminds Jack of someone he used to know.  

Jack blinks at the static display, rubbing his hands over his eyes and all the way back to his neck, rubbing the tense muscles there.  He must be sleeping wrong.  

He straightens up when he hears the turning of the door handle, assuming a professional attitude of attention.  Footsteps cross the room, the heavy clomp-clomp of a man who makes no effort to hide his weight, or soften his approach.  He stops just behind Jack, breathing audibly as he leans closer to study the monitor.  Too close.

"Is the prisoner to your satisfaction?"  Jack makes no effort to hide the edge in his voice.  

"Is there anything you don't understand about your current duties?"  Kendall snaps back.

"Yes, actually."  Jack swivels around I his chair, facing his boss.  Far too close.  "I'm having difficulty determining why, after capturing one of the CIA's primary targets, I find myself relegated to watchdog duty."

"Well, maybe you could explain something to me, Jack," Kendall straightened up, out of Jack's face, crossing his arms.  "Maybe you could explain to me how you knew about those explosives."

"The explosives fit perfectly into Sark's profile.  We have already...discussed...this question at length."

"You sounded pretty certain for a hunch based on a profile."

"Agent Bristow was in the van with him.  I wasn't wasting time on uncertainty."

"Or perhaps you know more about those explosives than you let on.  It wouldn't be the first time."

"Nor would it be the first time you pursued an investigation against an agent without any hint of proof."

"What exactly are you insinuating?"

"I'm not insinuating anything.  I'm saying it straight out."

"Agent Bristow, you would do well to watch your accusations."

"You would do well to drop yours."

Neither man dropped his gaze for several moments, until after they heard the echo of heels down the hallway and the click of the doorlock as someone entered an access code.

Sydney stepped into the room, her brown eyes taking in the scene.  Before she had a chance to speak, Kendall turned toward the door.

"I'm checking Marshall's progress on DNA analysis.  Inform me of any changes with the prisoner."

Jack didn't respond.  Sydney crossed her arms, waiting only long enough for the door to close behind Kendall.

"You can't keep baiting Kendall."

"What gives you the impression that was what I was doing?"

Sydney continued to give him what can only be described as a _look._

"Sydney, I don't believe I have to remind you Kendall is an ass.  He's threatened by the idea any of his agents could run a mission without his supervision."

"I just don't want him breathing down your neck again."

"Again?"

A slow smile spread across her face.  "Have we found out anything from Sark?"

"Nothing."

"No surprise there."

"No."

******

The next time he sees her, she's dressed in black, severe suit almost hiding the curves of her figure.  Almost.  Her hair is pulled into a knot so tight it seems it might tug at her eyebrows, but those are hidden, too, behind thick-rimmed glasses.  She's waiting for him when he arrives, alone at the long table of polished wood, tall stack of books obscuring her hands.  He takes a seat on the opposite side of the table, two chairs down, and flips open a leather notebook and an impressive-looking book he pulled off the shelf.  It's apparently about the mating habits of African dung beetles.  Perhaps he should have read the title first. He begins scanning the third chapter, which is, unfortunately, illustrated, and waits a full six minutes for her to begin.  

She speaks almost without moving her mouth, a skill he never knew she possessed.  Her head is bent over, close to the desk, from this angle he can see she's holding a silver pen and a lined blue legal pad.  

"There's a sheet of paper placed between pages 378 and 379 of a book with this call number."  She subtly taps the top sheet of the legal pad in front of her.  "Give it to Mr. Sark, and he will give you more information about the DNA."

"Irina, I am not your courier."  She's not the only one who can speak without moving her lips.  

She does not look up at him.  "You wanted information, I'm giving it to you."

"With an encrypted message for your associate, I'm certain."

"Read the paper yourself, Jack.  You'll find nothing but a simple memo."

"I think we both know something about hidden instructions."

She rips the top sheet from the legal pad, not bothering to mask the noise.  "Goodbye, Jack."  She stands up and strides out of the room, heels echoing behind her.  He sits at the table for four minutes before rising to leave, hand trailing across the table as he goes, grasping the single blue sheet.

The page is where she said it would be, the message both straightforward and cryptic: "You may release the pertinent DNA information to Agent Bristow.  We have determined that doing so will strengthen your bargaining position and will not compromise our projects."

His hand convulses in anger as he steps out onto the street, crushing the flimsy sheet of paper in his fist.  He releases it, not bothering to watch as it's caught by the wind, swirling and tumbling toward a grate nearby.

******

The call wakes him three nights later, cell phone beating out an obnoxious tune in the most shrill tone imaginable.  His emergency phone.  Damn.

He curses, one hand groping blindly at the bedside table, head already ringing with his customary morning headache.

"Bristow."

"Jack, we need you at Ops Center right now."  Of all the voices to wake up to, Kendall's is certainly the most unpleasant.  

"What's happened?"

"The prisoner has escaped."


	10. Double

His head throbs in time to his heart as he pushes through the glass doors, hardly a glance to the security guard, who lets him pass.

Ops Center is a place without time – the steady stream of different shifts wending through the building give the impression not of the typical nine-to-five bureaucracy but of a never-ending swarm of disturbingly orderly suits.  

Not tonight.  The swarm moves at full pitch, people rushing in every direction grasping whatever they hold in their hands as if it were the holy grail – files, computer discs, bits of unrecognizable technology, even severed electrical cords that seem to have been put to some dubious use.

And at the center of it all, Kendall.  His face has taken on an odd shade of burgundy, interrupted by at least two cobalt-colored veins visibly throbbing on his forehead.

He addresses Jack loudly, from across the room, without preamble. 

"I want you to come and look at this."

They wind their way through the several sets of security monitors leading down to the holding cell.  The scene inside is no less grisly for being expected.  Four guards, two shot cleanly, once in the chest and once at the temple, point blank by the looks of it.  The other two were less lucky: crude weapons fashioned from electrical wires (now garrotes) and shards of what was once a plexiglass wall.  The fourth was also treated to the edge of the steel bed before he slumped against the wall.  

Jack studies them with unblinking eyes, one hand at his chin; perhaps it would tremble if he moved it from there.

Perhaps it would not.  Death, even in its messiest forms, is something he's become accustomed to.

He shifts to one side, making room for a photographer, already busy cataloguing the positions of the bodies.  

"How did he exit the building?"

"Well, he's your prisoner, Jack.  I thought maybe you could tell me that."

"Since it was your investigation, I thought you might have discovered that fact by now."

An exceptionally brave (or exceptionally stupid) techie breaks the silence.   "They exited through the air shaft."

"_They?"_

"Yes, Jack, _they_.  Your prisoner managed to smuggle a friend in to join him."

He can't tell whether it's the too-quick dinner or the too-brief scotch that makes his stomach lurch.  His mind is already groping for an explanation, and he doesn't think _she was with me_ will go over well.

This he thinks.

"That's ridiculous.  That air shaft is more well-guarded than the entrance to this building."

This he says.

"Someone gained access to the shaft by disabling the cameras and sensors, then entered the cell, murdered the agents, and escaped with the prisoner," the too-helpful techie pipes up again.

"So, apparently, it wasn't well-guarded enough."  Clearly, Kendall hasn't had quite enough of his stare-down.

"Someone with access had to disable the failsafe systems along the shaft.  Have you checked the system logs?"

"It may surprise you, Jack, that I already thought of doing that.  And I don't think you're going to like what I found."  He retrieves a single sheet of paper from those strewn on the console behind him, passing it to Jack as if it were an indictment.  

Beneath the jumbled fragments of code and half-formed input commands, he reads a single name.

William D. Tippin

_"Tippin?"_  

"You provided him with cover, Jack.  Did it occur to you to check background?"

"Yes.  Just as I assume it occurred to you before you hired him as an analyst."

Kendall snorts.  "We've dispatched a team to bring him in.  He will be held at a nearby facility while awaiting transport to Camp Harris for interrogation."

"There's no reason to transport him to Camp Harris without even a preliminary investigation."

"Jack, are we not standing in the same room?"

He gestures at the floor, and Jack's uncomfortable stomach reminds him they are holding their little pissing match over four fresh corpses.  It's time to leave; as the room heats up with bodies and electronics he can smell the stench of drying blood.

"I'm going to have Marshall re-run the computer logs.  I want to see every record of access in the last six hours before we draw any conclusions."  He's in motion before he begins the sentence, finishing it on his way through the heavy doors; their weight drowns out Kendall's response.

******

He meets her fifteen feet into the entrance corridor, her walk quick and precise, her eyes full of flashing anger, even though her makeup cannot quite hide their red tinge.  A part of him wants to wrap his arms around her and smooth her hair; the other part of him, shaped by years of distance and reserve, is not quite sure how.  

She does not give him time to speak.

"Dad, we need to find out why they've accused Will."

"I'm working on that right now."  He settles for grasping her arm, just above the elbow, steering her gently around to follow his lead.  "I've had Marshall pull all the computer logs.  Are you aware of anyone who might have access to Will's personal belongings?"

"I've been going over and over that – I can't think of anyone.  He practically lives at my place, especially now that he's dating Francie, and you know I've taken every security precaution – I still have the bugkillers I was using to avoid SD-6--"

"Um, Agent Bristow?"  They've rounded a corner, straight into Marshall.

"Yes?"  

Both their heads snap toward him in unison.  Jack never realized she'd inherited that trait from him.  

"Oh, uh, sorry, I mean Mr. Bristow, though I guess you can listen, too, Agent -- Sydney, it was just that kind of needed to speak with—"

"What _is_ it, Marshall?"

"Well, sir, it's just that I've been working on the video images to see how the cameras were disabled – it was a pretty good trick, you know, I didn't design the encryption myself or anything, but still—"

"Marshall—"

"We have a video."

"What?"  Again, in unison.

"Well, like I said, I was going back over the cameras, and the interior cameras were disabled – I mean, lights out kind of disabled, you know how it is at the end of that movie _The_—"

"Marshall!"

"Well, but the outside cameras were on a different system – the feeds were disabled, but whoever did it didn't destroy the equipment itself.   So I was able to work from the internal images stored in the camera and extrapolate – well, extrapolate might be the wrong word, it's really more like when you—"

_"Marshall!"_  

"I can show you the video."

Sydney beats both of them to the end of the hallway, leaning over Marshall's cluttered workspace, already staring at one of the many monitors along the wall.  How she knows which one to use is a mystery, probably a result of the fact she has far more patience with Marshall than Jack ever will.  

Marshall sits sideways in the chair, perched on its edge, punching commands into the keyboard with his typical nervous energy.  

"Okay, there."  The screen Sydney has been staring at lights up, the blurry image resolving itself into one of a man and a woman climbing into a car.  The blonde man is easy to pick out, but the woman—

"Now, you can see him, but her – now _this_ is a neat little trick.  Re-direct the image and overlay with one from the other camera, and then you get – voila!"

Sydney's hands slip from the rounded edge of the desk, just as Jack's hand convulses, gripping the back of Marshall's seat.  His daughter's voice comes in a choked whisper, like the shock of a child learning that daddy betrayed her.

"Francie?"


	11. Destruction

It's seven the next evening before he finds any time away.  His pounding head begs him to travel to back to his favorite spot, but he digs his fingers into the too-hot steering wheel and steers the car back home.  The torrent of information is only beginning to resolve itself; he still feels as if he were watching the last eighteen hours on a video camera rather than through his own eyes.  He knows this sensation – the way each of the puzzle pieces comes together, each bit of intelligence fitting just where it should, only to form the picture of someone's life falling apart.  He has seen this before – he remembers the way they added up the clues, bit by bit, to form the picture of a woman named Irina Derevko, a woman he'd never met.  Each piece of that jigsaw puzzle had been drawn in his daughter's tears and painted in his own blood.  He never forgets this.  He can still see the scars.  

Today, it was another jigsaw puzzle – the picture slowly coming together, a picture of a woman none of them had ever met, yet somehow all of them knew – he knows this sensation, too.  Those pieces are also drawn in the tears of his daughter, and painted with the blood of Francie Calfo.  He saw Tippin, too, the image of a life deconstructed, red-rimmed eyes staring at the floor of his cell, one hand raking through his hair until it all stood on end, and raking through it again.  He brings these images home with him tonight; he wonders if they will follow him into his dreams.  

At the thought of dreams, his fingers clench more tightly on the steering wheel, hot vinyl searing his skin.  _She._  She is responsible.  He can trace it all back, every mistake, every defeat, every time he's downed scotch in a dingy bar or slept alone on his couch or driven with his fingers itching to snap the steering wheel – it all traces back to her.  

The voice of reason might tell him differently, remind him of his own faults, as well, remind him that anyone – even his daughter – can make a mistake.  But this changes nothing.  It all, somehow, stems from her.  

He doesn't listen to reason much, anyway.

The car finally finds its way back into his driveway, a small marvel he made it this far, and after sliding sweaty hands from a too-hot steering wheel, he's out of the car and in the door, without even bothering to take off his jacket.  He's barely inside before reaching for the transmitter he keeps concealed in the handle of a steak knife.  He taps out the message in morse code, only once, not certain whether he truly wants this message to be heard.  His head tells him to run, to get as far away from this woman as humanly possible.  But he's listening to something deeper, the pain in his gut, the anger that wants so badly to lash out.  He completes the transmission and walks to his room to change clothes, taking his time, giving her the chance to arrive first.  He then reaches for his wallet and keys.  Time to create cover.

When he pulls off of his street, he hears the rumble of another engine starting.  The nondescript white 4-door pulls into traffic behind him.  It stays far back, never getting too close, sometimes lagging minutes behind him, sometimes taking alternate routes, then ending up on the same road.  But it stays behind.

He pulls into the gas station.  Past time he filled his tank.  The white 4-door pauses at a video store down the block.  He stops at the liquor store.  He told himself the bottle of scotch on the coffee table would be his last, but the way this week is shaping up that's looking less and less likely.  The 4-door passes and pulls into a church parking lot.  He stops at the dry cleaners and drops off two suits, while the 4-door idles in an alley a half-block down.  He goes in for groceries.  He asks a clerk for the bathroom and, predictably, is pointed to a rather shady back room with a tiny unisex stall in a closet-size space behind a door that barely locks.  Waiting for the stockboys to clear the area, he crouches behind two boxes, then slowly creeps out through the loading dock.  A small delivery truck is parked just to one side, rear doors opened a few inches.  With one last glance around, he walks over to the truck and slowly pushes the rear doors open, rewarded by the screech of steel that plays on the edge of every nerve.  He is greeted, predictably, by a gun barrel.  She lowers it slowly as he climbs inside, forcing the door shut behind him, again greeted with screeching steel, only slightly better than fingernails across a chalkboard, or sirens when his daughter is on a mission.  

"I had to take some rather disturbing risks in order to meet you here so quickly."  

His face is taut, lips pale and pressed tightly together.  "And what makes you suppose I would care about those risks?"

Her tone remains even, but her eyes flash.  "Only that it means a risk for you, as well.  Discovery would not be terribly helpful to your future at the CIA."

"I'm glad to hear you're so concerned."  He makes no effort to hide the venom in his tone.

"Jack, had you complied—"

"Had I complied?  Had I _complied_?  What could possibly persuade you that I would commit a felony, much less trust a woman who has proven she cares about nothing but herself?  Do you really think I'm foolish?  You give me so little credit?"

"Are you finished, or do you think there's someone on this block who hasn't heard you?"

He sucks in his breath, sharply, between his teeth, and continues.  His voice is low, clear, deadly.  His tone matches hers, and hates himself for even this small resemblance.  

"Irina, despite everything I have seen you do, every betrayal you have made, I believed that at least you cared for Sydney.  But this – this was beneath even you."  He spits the last two words; the glint in her eyes and clench of her fist show that she recognizes those words for just what they are – the worst insult he can think of.  

"Jack, if you are bent on not even listening to me—"

"I have nothing more to say to you.  To think that I would stoop to even speak to a woman who betrayed her daughter, betrayed her family, and _never_ gave it a second thought –"

She closes her eyes, tired, as if this is an argument they have had many times before.  "Jack—"

"I want nothing to do with you.  Nothing.  And if you so much as dare to speak to my daughter—"

"She's _our_ daughter, Jack."

"Not in her mind.  And not in mine."  The shot hits home; he can see it.  Her body sags, ever so slightly, against the metal of the truck wall.  Her jaw clenches tightly, like his, and he can see the color draining from her clenched fists.  But this is all she gives him.

She stands up and strides toward him, past him.  "The reason you will never catch Sloane is that you can't distance yourself from your emotions.  I tried to help, but you can't listen to a simple sentence.  I'm no longer working with Arvin, and I'm no longer meeting with you.  Goodbye, Jack."

She says this as she reaches for the metal door, raising her voice only enough to be heard over its screeching as it slides open.  She steps outside, off to one side of the truck, and he does not even bother to see which way she goes.  

He gives himself only a moment, slowing his breathing, unclenching his fists, finger by finger, like prying open the hands of a stubborn child.  He has the presence of mind to look both ways before he steps out of the truck, and to brush off the stockers as he makes his way into the store.  He places seven items in a basket without even looking at them, explaining the time spent here.  He's out the doors and down two blocks before he sees the white 4-door pull out behind him.


End file.
